This article is written with deep sorrow for the lives lost in the recent Hill Country flood. As someone who lived in the area for nearly two decades and experienced similar storms firsthand, my intent is not to assign blame in the midst of grief, but to offer perspective—drawn from experience and memory—that may help prevent future tragedies. This is not a call for more laws or politics. It is a call for caution, for local wisdom, and for remembering the land we live on and the rivers we’ve known.

What happened in Texas over the Fourth of July is nothing short of tragic. A group of young girls and camp staff were swept from their beds at 4 a.m. by a flash flood—not in the middle of hurricane season, but in July. Not in some far-off floodplain, but in the Texas Hill Country.

No matter what you believe about God, climate change, or cloud seeding, blaming anything other than the weather doesn’t help. And the strangest finger-pointing—at President Trump, of all people—only adds confusion. Even if some of those factors contain elements of truth, they distract from the real issue: this kind of disaster is predictable—and preventable.

I spent nearly 20 years in the Texas Hill Country. Though I now live in Utah, I experienced multiple flash floods while living in Boerne—just south of the 474 bridges near Sisterdale and Kendalia. Thankfully, our home and town were far enough from the worst of the floodwaters. But these events aren’t rare or freak accidents—they’re known dangers.

I’m not a building engineer or a city planner, and I can’t decide where camps or ranches should be built. But I am an Air Force veteran who served as a meteorologist in South Carolina. I grew up around these rivers—swimming in them, watching them surge, and seeing roads disappear beneath them. That pattern has continued—right up through July 2025. I’m also a father of three small children.

I don’t know whether those who designed or built the camp were new to the region or lifelong locals. But even in a place with so much local knowledge and history, the danger wasn’t fully recognized. The flood on July 4th revealed a risk that, for whatever reason, wasn’t fully understood or planned for. That’s not to say anyone meant for this to happen—but moments like this invite us to pause, reflect, and do everything we can to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

The rivers may look like quiet creek beds most of the year, but when a low pressure system stalls or a quick supercell soars high into the earth’s atmosphere and then dumps inches of rain in a short window, those same rivers become raging, deadly ravines. The propensity for these floods has proven time and again to be as dangerous—if not more so—than many tropical storms or hurricanes that get names, headlines, and national attention.

These flash floods don’t come with warning cones or constant satellite coverage. No hurricane hunters fly into them. No one tracks their paths on national television for a week before landfall. But the physics is the same: low pressure, moisture from the Gulf, lift, and gravity. The water still comes. And it’s just as real.

What makes it worse is that we do have the science. We have geologists, geographers, and meteorologists who know exactly what happens here. And yet somehow, the warnings go unheeded. The land gets sold. The risk gets minimized. Camps get built where floods have already come before.

If we treated Hill Country rivers the way we treat rip currents at the beach, we might think twice before letting kids camp near them when danger signs are present. We’d check the forecast and terrain more seriously.

Two starting points for better planning:

1.  Maps and photos of river basins show their limits—many are naturally contained by abrupt elevation changes. Every property is different, so assess this boundary first. In the hills, any river or tributary is a possible culprit for rapid rising water.

2.  The National Weather Service issued flood advisories for Kerr County at least 12 hours in advance. That alone should have prompted immediate, permanent evacuation from riverbanks.

This isn’t a call for more legislation. It’s not about red tape, regulation, or government oversight. It’s a call to something far simpler: common sense and memory. Remember where you live. Remember what nature has done before. And don’t pretend it won’t happen again.
So no, don’t blame God. Don’t blame climate change. Don’t blame some vast conspiracy. Focus instead on what we can control—decisions, preparedness, and memory. And commit to doing better.

Let’s remember these girls not just with mourning, but with resolve—because their lives should never have been put in that kind of danger to begin with.

“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.”

— Matthew 5:4

[Edit: It appears this camp has existed for nearly 100 years, and has sadly experienced these floods with casualties in the past]